Man, I didn’t just drop the ball,
I spiked that baby. I threw it
down like Shaq. Did I mean to?
No. The ball didn’t seem to fit
the mitt. The ball was heavy;
I was thought to be strong,
but that thought was wrong.
I didn’t really want the ball.
I just happen to stumble upon
it. I did pick it up after all.
At the end of the day, I picked
up the same ball I dropped.
There is no reason to rant;
I’ll dribble the ball till’ I can’t.
Those who come from
broken homes know
they have hands
stronger than stone.
Some don’t know
about the broken
home. Those familiar
with functional families
are all too lucky. Only
some know about it –
the pain of picking
up pieces, putting
them all together,
and hoping they fit.
Those used to
being used have it
tough. Either way,
the broken home
can help others
build their own:
the way they want.
The thing about
a broken home
is that it can be
fixed. When love
is missed, fix
the home, I insist.
IN YOUR DREAMS POETRY 